


Lord Have Mercy On My Rough and Rowdy Ways

by Big_Mood_Inc



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Found Family, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, affectionate Geralt, can be read as pre ot3, smitten geralt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Mood_Inc/pseuds/Big_Mood_Inc
Summary: Yennefer doesn’t know much about Jaskier, but she had assumed that of their little ragtag group he’d be the most agreeable.Oh how wrong she was.Or, 4 times Jaskier defends his family plus 1 time his family defends hima.k.a, my feral bard Jaskier fic
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 80
Kudos: 1140
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo





	1. Geralt

They find Jaskier in a tavern just outside of Brugge. Yennefer had spent the whole ride there reassuring Geralt that despite the current state of her magic, her tracking spell was impeccable.

It was certain that Jaskier was there.

Still, doubt clung stubbornly to the witcher, like mud on her favorite pair of boots, until he actually laid eyes on the bard.

Gods, he was going to give her a headache.

She’s been traveling with Geralt and Ciri for months now, and while she still begrudged the witcher and kept him at arm’s length, she must admit—even if only to herself—that she’s grateful to him.

Grateful to him for bringing Ciri into her life, for being so open and allowing her to share his child surprise.

If Ciri had been granted to her instead, she’s not sure she’d be so generous.

So really, it was the least she could do to help him find his bard.

She could even go so far as to say it was a selfish act, because honestly it was painful watching Geralt come to terms with the fact that he missed Jaskier.

Every time they’d walk into a tavern with some tawdry troubadour trilling their little lungs out Geralt’s face would screw up like he’d eaten something rotten and he’d spend the rest of his night sulking into his ale.

The only thing possibly worse than that miserable pining was when Geralt actually realized that the feelings he had for the bard were more than platonic. That he _loved_ the fool.

The poor bastard didn’t even realize what he’d had, too busy trying to play lone wolf to see what was right in front of him.

Yennefer wanted to roll her eyes as she nudged Geralt forward from where he was frozen in the doorway of the tavern.

Jaskier was in the middle of a song, standing on a table and stamping his foot to the beat. Geralt’s eyes were fixed on him like he was afraid the bard would vanish if he looked away for even a moment. The mixture of anticipation and longing displayed so clearly on his face made her stomach twist.

After spending night after night listening to Geralt tell Ciri stories about Jaskier and all of their adventures, something bitter had settled in her chest. She wishes she could say it was jealousy—that, at least, is something she’s familiar with—but this felt heavier, settling behind her ribs like a lead weight.

She’d always assumed the bard was just an annoyance, a pest that Geralt only tolerated for the extra coin.

She should have known better. They only met in Rinde, after all, out of Geralt’s desperate attempt to save him.

Perhaps she was blinded by her own affections for the witcher—real or not—that she never really looked closer. She just saw the irritation on Geralt’s face whenever the bard opened his mouth and assumed that’s all there was.

She didn’t know about the way Jaskier would tend to Geralt’s wounds after a fight, or how he learned how to make Geralt’s witcher potions, or the way he would carefully mend his armor after particularly brutal contracts.

It was clear in every reminiscence how much love and care Jaskier had for the witcher.

Looking back, she understands where Jaskier’s animosity towards her came from. She’d always assumed whenever they traded barbs that it was just amiable banter, but now she knows that there was some truth, some real hurt, being hidden.

They move easily through the tavern to the back corner, the patrons too enthralled by the bard’s performance to pay them any mind.

Jaskier doesn’t falter in his song when he catches sight of them, but she can see the way his eyes track them all the way to their table.

They have to sit through two more songs until the end of Jaskier’s set. Two songs that Geralt spends the entirely of fidgeting and glowering into his untouched ale.

Finally, Jaskier settles across from Geralt, his own drink in hand.

“Geralt. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt greets, his voice practically dripping in fondness.

Geralt opens his mouth—no doubt to recite the apology she’s heard him practicing to Roach in the dead of night—but before he can get a single word out, a thick, yellowed glob of spit impacts his cheek.

It’s like the whole room freezes, holding their breaths, as the saliva slowly slides down Geralt’s face.

“Filthy witcher,” the stranger sneers through crooked and blackened teeth. Even from where she’s sitting Yen can smell the alcohol wafting off the man.

But Geralt isn’t looking at the man, he’s looking at Jaskier with wide panicked eyes.

“Jask wait—”

But the bard was already out of his seat.

In a flash his arm snaps forward, slamming his tankard full force into the temple of the drunkard. The stoneware mug shatters against his skull and the man drops like a sack of bricks.

The tavern is silent around them.

Yennefer knows she’s gaping, eyes darting between the man on the ground and the bard standing over his prone form.

Jaskier pulls himself to his full height, back ramrod straight as he adjusts his doublet. His eyes scan the crowd slowly, a silent challenge to any on-lookers that want to get involved.

He tugs a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and leans down to wipe at Geralt’s cheek, “honestly,” he says, clucking his tongue in disapproval, “what a boorish way for a man to behave.”

Geralt’s face is a mixture of exasperation and adoration as he looks up at Jaskier. He reaches up to hold the bard’s hand against his face, “I’ve missed you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pauses his ministrations, blinking owlishly at Geralt as a dark flush blooms on his cheeks.

“Yes, well I—I suppose I’ve missed you too. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still angry with you! You said some very cruel things to me Geralt of Rivia.”

“I know,” Geralt says with a softness that she’s only ever heard him use with Ciri, “you didn’t deserve any of the harsh things I said to you. It was unfair. I’m sorry Jaskier. If you’ll allow me, I swear I will endeavor every day to earn your forgiveness.”

Jaskier’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, practically swooning when the witcher turns to press a kiss into the bard’s palm “oh Geralt,” he sighs softly, “oh of course I forgive you, you fool!”

Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt, and really if she had not seen it with her own two eyes, she wouldn’t believe that was the same bard who took down a fully grown man with one hit.

Geralt seems to take this in stride, gently maneuvering the sniffling bard to sit across his lap. He’s so gentle as he cradles Jaskier’s face in his hands and leans in and—

“Gross,” Ciri deadpans from beside her.

It’s enough to make Jaskier pull away, his cheeks stained red but his eyes bright with happiness, “oh how rude of me! And I haven’t even introduced myself!”

Geralt doesn’t let Jaskier go far, an arm slung around the bard’s trim waist keeping them pressed closed together as he talks animatedly to Ciri. The witcher is grinning at whatever story Jaskier is telling, expertly dodging flailing hands as he gesticulates dramatically.

She’s honestly not paying attention to the tale, but it must be funny because next to her Ciri throws her head back and _laughs._ Its bright and unrestrained and it’s the most wonderful thing she’s ever heard

She catches Geralt’s eye from across the table. He’s smiling at her, a soft gentle thing, and gives a quick nod of his head.

_Thank you._

Yennefer grins back at him as Ciri lets out another burst of giggles. For the first time in weeks her chest feels light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ultimately a comedy so of course I wanted to keep the apology scene fluffy and lighthearted but listen I feel like Jaskier is totally the type of person to spend weeks fuming and stoking the fires of his grudge and acting out fake arguments with Geralt in his own head so he can Totally Give That Witcher A Piece Of His Mind, only to be so totally blindsided by Geralt of Rivia genuinely apologizing that he just bursts into tears.


	2. Ciri

Jaskier inserted himself so easily into their routines it was as if he’d always belonged there. Their days were suddenly filled with lilting melodies, and their nights filled with grandiose tales of heroics and romance.

Yennefer can understand now, why Geralt missed the bard so deeply. Jaskier is loud and bright and lively; there’s a certain kind of absence a person like Jaskier leaves behind.

Even though it’s only been a few weeks, she can’t imagine their little group without the bard. Doesn’t _want_ to imagine days without songs and nights without laughter.

It was almost as if they had just been waiting for Jaskier to come and fill a void they didn’t even know they had—although Yen would never admit that to the bard’s face.

Tonight however, there will be no songs. They’re at a tavern now, in some backwater town in Temeria. They’d heard rumor of Nilfgaardian soldiers seen nearby and decided it was best to hole up for the night and lay low.

Yennefer had gone so far as to put a charm on Ciri’s hair to change its color. Instead of its usual blonde it was now a dark chestnut brown that made the green of her eyes pop in the candlelight.

Even Jaskier had traded his usual bright silks for dark trousers and one of Geralt’s gray tunics, his lute still sealed in its case and tucked safely away in their rented room.

Geralt isn’t with them. She knows how much he hates splitting up, they all do, but it’s necessary. They’re in desperate need of coin, so Geralt is off talking to the town alderman about the wyvern nest they had destroyed on their way into town. If they’re lucky, there’d already be an open contract and Geralt could just collect the reward without having to haggle for decent pay.

Yennefer barely contains a sigh as her stomach lets out another discontented rumble. Jaskier had ventured to the bar with the last of their coin to get them dinner what felt like ages ago.

Her fingers drum on the table impatiently as she tries to parse through the crowd of people to locate their bard. He’s much harder to spot without any of his usual colorful flair, but she eventually catches sight of him.

He’s still waiting patiently at the bar, but something doesn’t seem right. He isn’t chattering enthusiastically at the barmaid as she had expected, or trading jokes with the drunkards sitting next to him.

Jaskier is stiff where he stands, a glare fixed on the group of rowdy young men just one table over from them. She can’t hear what they’re saying, but Jaskier obviously can, and he isn’t happy.

Now that she’s paying attention, she can see the men’s eyes darting to their table in between bouts of whispers, specifically to Ciri.

Her first frantic thought is that Ciri was recognized, but no, Yen has been around long enough and worked for enough entitled men to recognize _that_ kind of leer, and it immediately has her hackles up.

Jaskier finally makes it back to their table, balancing their food and drink with ease. If Ciri notices that Jaskier has moved his chair closer to hers she doesn’t say anything, instead focusing on tearing into her food with all the enthusiasm of a growing teen.

One of the men staggers to their feet, obviously heading to the bar for a refill. As he passes their table, she sees him mutter something under his breath that has Jaskier’s face twisting into a dangerous sneer.

The man makes the mistake of reaching out to paw at Ciri’s long hair.

Yennefer doesn’t even get a chance to say anything as Jaskier quickly turns his head and _bites_ down on the offending hand.

Ciri startles as the man behind her begins to wail in pain. He tries to shake off the bard, but Jaskier only bites down harder. Yennefer can hear a loud crack as Jaskier clenches his jaw and the shriek the man lets out has Ciri scrambling over to her.

When the man finally pulls free, his hand looks mangled. There’s blood smeared across Jaskier’s lips and chin. He looks absolutely wild. His chest heaving and eyes bright with fury as he glares balefully at the man.

“Don’t you _fucking_ touch her,” he snarls.

Yennefer has a passing thought that maybe she should intervene, but honestly? This is too fun. With Ciri tucked safely against her side, she can sit back and enjoy the show.

She sips delicately from her glass of wine as Jaskier grabs a fistful of the man’s shirt, arm cocked back to deliver a brutal punch when the tavern door swings open.

“Jaskier!”

Oh, Geralt’s back.

Jaskier freezes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Darling. You’re back early,” he lowers his fist, but makes no move to release the man sniveling and shaking in his grip.

“ _Darling,_ ” Geralt rumbles as he approaches their table, “you’re causing a scene.”

“He started it,” Jaskier says peevishly, anger still burning in his eyes.

“Well I’m ending it,” Geralt says, his large hand delicately circling Jaskier’s wrist where his hand is still fisted in cloth.

Jaskier lets out a resigned sigh as he lets the man fall from his grip immediately moving to tangle his fingers with Geralt’s. The man scuttles away like the vermin he is, hurrying out the door with his friends not far behind.

“Fiona,” Geralt says, not taking his eyes off the bard, “why don’t you go finish your dinner upstairs?”

Ciri quickly grabs her plate—as well as Jaskier’s abandoned plate, Yen notices with amusement—before scampering away up the stairs

“Care to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Geralt says, arching a brow at the bard.

“Just providing a quick lesson on why it’s best to keep our hands to ourselves,” Jaskier says entirely unrepentant, “he was saying such repugnant things Geralt, I couldn’t help but offer some _gentle correction_.”

Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh as he turns to Yen, “why didn’t you stop him?”

Yennefer shrugs, inspecting her nails nonchalantly, “he looked like he deserved it.”

Jaskier lets out an excited whoop, not even a little abashed when Geralt glares at him.

“Honestly Geralt what did you expect us to do?” Jaskier says a touch petulantly, “did you really think we would just sit by and let that man talk about our daughter like that?”

She pauses, blinking up at Jaskier as the bard rolls his eyes at Geralt and continues to rant at the witcher

_Our daughter_

She’d only dared called Ciri that in the privacy of her own head, too worried of overstepping an unspoken boundary, not wanting to risk the chance of possibly of _losing_ what she had been so freely given. Losing what was never hers to take in the first place.

Because Ciri belonged to _Geralt,_ and Geralt and Jaskier belonged to each other, the three of them could be a proper family without her and she didn’t want to _assume,_ didn’t want to _hope_ that Ciri could be hers too.

Leave it to Jaskier to completely topple her worries with just a passing phrase.

Geralt heads for the stairs as the bard flops back down into his seat with a groan. He blinks dumbly down at the empty space in front of him, “did Geralt take my plate?”

Yennefer lets out an amused huff, “no, Ciri did.”

“Oh, that sneaky little—” Jaskier clutches at his chest, an absolute scandalized expression on his face, “are you telling me that our darling girl is using her witchery training for _evil?”_

Yen tamps down the fondness blooming in her chest as she rolls her eyes at the dramatics. She shoves her still full plate between them, “well come on then, there’s enough here for both of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a creep at a bar who thought it was totally acceptable to run his greasy fingers through my hair. Wherever u are dude I hope you’re having a terrible day.


	3. Roach

They’re almost back to camp when Geralt smells the blood.

Ciri had insisted on helping Geralt hunt for their dinner and Yennefer had wanted to tag along. To help of course. Definitely not because she didn’t want to be left alone with Jaskier.

She’s not _avoiding_ the bard. Quite the opposite really. She actually found herself enjoying Jaskier’s company more and more as the days passed. She’d even call them _friends._

The bard grew on her quickly, like a mold or a fungus. Somehow, he managed to worm his way through all of her defenses despite her best attempts to keep the bard at a distance.

She doesn’t know what to do with the fondness that bubbles up inside her every time the bard cracks a stupid joke, or the warmth the spreads through her chest when she watches him sing songs with Ciri.

It leaves her feeling exposed in a way she’s not entirely familiar with.

Geralt is giving Ciri a soft smile as they trek through the underbrush. Their bounty, a pair of dead rabbits, dangle from Ciri’s grip as she jumps over tree roots and ducks under branches.

She’s in the middle of enthusiastically recounting the tale of her first hunt with her grandfather when Geralt’s whole body locks up. His head snaps quickly toward the direction of their camp, his nose twitching as he takes a deep inhale.

“Geralt?”

“Blood,” he rumbles, “ _human_ blood. A lot of it.”

Yennefer’s stomach drops all the way to her feet.

They all take off running towards camp and she feels sick. This is _her fault._ She should have never left Jaskier alone. If only she had stayed, they could have been sharing a drink by the fire, swapping embarrassing stories about Geralt, and he would have been _safe_.

Melitele knows who or what could have found him out here.

When they finally break through the tree line, Yennefer’s jaw drops.

Their entire campsite is painted red with blood.

Its spattered on the trees and their bags and their bedrolls, the smell of iron so thick that Yennefer wants to gag, and Jaskier—

“Is that guy _dead_?” Ciri asks cautiously.

Jaskier is absolutely drenched in it. He stands next to a crumpled body with blood matted in his hair, smeared across his face, and soaked through his blue silk doublet.

“He was trying to steal Roach,” Jaskier offers up defensively as he tries—and fails—to wipe away the blood that had grown tacky on his forehead, “I had to slit his throat.”

Geralt lets out a strangled noise, “and then what?” he asks, a touch hysterically, “you decided to bathe in his blood?!”

She can see the bard’s cheeks flush under the layer of gore coating his skin, “oh what, you think this was intentional? He fell on top of me Geralt! I was _trapped_. He was _heavy_ and he smelled like _shit_!”

“Probably was shit,” Geralt mutters unhelpfully, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jaskier visibly bristles, like a blue jay puffing its feathers, “oh I see how it is,” he snaps, “when a beautiful woman kills a man for touching Roach, she’s a worthy travel companion. But when _Jaskier_ does it, it’s a problem!” He turns his nose up at Geralt with a huff.

“Jaskier—”

“I’m so unappreciated!” the bard warbles dramatically, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead.

“I think it’s pretty cool Jaskier,” Ciri pipes up sweetly from beside her.

Geralt takes a deep measured breath, and then another, “Jaskier—"

“I was nearly _crushed to death_ defending my beloved’s noble steed and this is how I’m treated! The absolute nerve!”

“Jaskier.”

The bard opens his mouth, no doubt with another tirade ready on his tongue, but stops short as Geralt brings up a hand to cradle a bloodstained cheek, “are you hurt?” he asks gently.

Jaskier softens a bit, almost melting into Geralt's hand, “no, I’m alright.”

Geralt hums, pulling out a worn piece of cloth to wipe away some of the blood from his face before pressing a quick peck to Jaskier’s lips.

He reaches down to grab one of his packs off the ground and tosses it to the bard.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. I can hear a river not too far from here.” Geralt kneels to heft the dead man onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, nose wrinkling at the smell.

“Think you can handle the cleanup here?” he tosses out to her over his shoulder.

Yennefer’s eyebrows crawl up her face in disbelief as she appraises the blood covered clearing before settling back on the witcher.

“Seriously?” she deadpans.

Geralt just grins at her, “thanks Yen,” before turning to guide Jaskier through the trees.

And really, it’s not much trouble to get the blood cleaned. With her magic it’s just a quick snap of the fingers, but it’s the principle of the matter. A sorceress of Aretuza, on _cleanup duty._

Still, by the time Jaskier and Geralt return there’s not a speck of blood to be found.

Jaskier looks better too, his pale skin flushed red where he no doubt had to scrub away some tougher dried on spots, but he’s clean. With his wet hair still dripping and dressed in clean clothes that are certainly not his he looks much more relaxed. He settles down in front of the fire, accepting the blanket Geralt wraps around his shoulders with a tender smile.

Geralt presses one last lingering kiss to the top of his head before he beckons Ciri over to teach her the proper way to skin and dress their rabbits.

Yennefer takes a seat next to the bard, pulling a flask out of her cloak pocket and taking a swig. “Be sure to stand behind them, the next time you need to cut someone’s throat,” she says, holding the flask out to him.

Jaskier’s eyes glow in amusement, his lips twisting up into a grin as he takes the flask, “noted.”


	4. Yennefer

Yennefer is exhausted.

She is absolutely fucking drained. She’s covered in god knows what kind of filth and she really just wants their fucking pay.

Her magic still hasn’t truly recovered from Sodden, despite the fact that it was months ago. Simple charms are easy, but any kind of major spell work leaves her depleted.

It was supposed to be an easy contract to help a local farmer get rid of his nightwraith, but of course it could never really be that easy. Not with the lives they led.

The farmer had, of course, lied. When they had gone to his fields to hunt for the specter, they found themselves overrun by devourers instead. It had taken the both of them at full power to finally clear everything out.

And now here they stand, in a tavern, in front of the smarmy little man who had tricked them and was now refusing the extra coin for their work.

“Why should I have to pay extra huh? You should be grateful I’m paying you at all _witcher_ ,” the man sneers before turning his attention to Yennefer. His eyes rake up and down her body in a way that makes her skin crawl and her blood boil, “looks to me like your bitch doesn’t really need the extra meals eh?”

She scowls _, did he really just insinuate—_

Suddenly there’s a blur of emerald silks that slam into the man full force, knocking him to the ground.

Jaskier straddles the man’s chest, delivering punch after punch, “how dare you! How dare you fucking speak to her like that!! Who the fuck do you think you are?! You limp-dick scoundrel! I ought to claw your fucking eyes out just for looking at her!”

“Fuck, not again,” Geralt sighs in exasperation as he goes to pull the bard off the prone man.

Jaskier thrashes in Geralt’s hold as the witcher easily restrains him. “Leave,” he barks to the man on the floor, “before you give me a reason to let him kill you.”

The man scrambles away and Yen smirks at the piss she can see darkening his trousers as he flees.

“He deserved that,” Jaskier spits before Geralt can say anything.

“I know,” Geralt says, making Jaskier freeze, “however, we’re trying to lay low, remember?”

Jaskier concedes with a huff, a faint blush dusting his cheeks as Geralt’s hold turns from restraining to tender.

“Where’s Ciri?” he says.

“In bed. Asleep. I wanted to wait up for you two. I’ve had a bad feeling since you left.”

Geralt hums again, nuzzling into the bard’s neck before letting him go.

“I’ll go check on her. Please, no more fights until _after_ I’ve had my bath? I’ve already paid for it and I’d rather not be kicked out before I’ve had a chance to enjoy it.”

“No promises,” Jaskier smirks.

Geralt huffs out a laugh, pressing one final peck to Jaskier’s lips and giving a quick nod to Yennefer before trudging up the stairs.

Jaskier turns his attention to her, eyeing her stained dress with distaste, “do I even want to know what that is?”

Yennefer’s own lip curls in disgust as she finally gets the chance to examine her dress in the candlelight, “definitely not.”

She practically collapses into the nearest chair, fatigue weighing heavy in her bones. There’s a headache throbbing behind her eyes and everything _hurts._ She hates this, hates feeling vulnerable and defenseless. _Weak._

Before Sodden, her chaos burned like an inferno inside of her, violent and volatile and powerful. Now, it feels like a candle flame, flickering and threatening to burn out at the slightest provocation.

Jaskier is humming quietly next to her, taking a break every so often to sip carefully from a steaming mug that tickles her nose with the delicate scent of chamomile.

He’s scratching away in his notebook as he tests out different rhythms and tunes, his foot tapping under the table to keep a steady beat. She knows that a few months ago the seemingly endless noise would have grated on her every nerve, but gods help her, right now she’s _grateful_ for it.

The bard’s familiar presence is like a cool balm on her burning frustration.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she says, leaning back and kicking her feet up on an empty chair, “for defending my honor.”

Jaskier snorts, waving her off, “please, you could have destroyed that man with a twitch of a finger. _I_ should be the one thanking _you_ for giving me the distinct pleasure of punching that cad on your behalf.”

And she knows it’s a joke, knows Jaskier is trying to lighten the mood, but the words still pierce into her chest, practically knocking the breath from her lungs.

“No. I couldn’t have,” she says, gut clenching, “I can’t do much of anything anymore. I’m sure you’ve noticed. I’m sure you wondered why I’m not just portaling us to Kaer Morhen, or why we’re forced to sleep on the ground rather than the comforts of a charmed tent. Why we’re living contract to contract and song to song.”

The admission hurts, it feels like she’s ripping her chest open, exposing the weakest part of herself for scrutiny but she can’t stop. Its bubbling up inside of her, all of her anger and pain and grief is finally overflowing and she doesn’t have control of it anymore.

“I burned myself up and now I am empty and _useless._ ”

Humiliation churns in her stomach as she feels her throat tighten. She can’t believe she’s spilling her guts to a _bard,_ of all people but for some godforsaken reason he’s she trusts him.

“Yen, you’re not useless—” she interrupts him with a scoff.

“You’re not useless,” Jaskier insists again, reaching out and squeezing her hand tightly, “you are quite possibly the most powerful person I’ve ever met. You are recovering. Admittedly I don’t know how all this magic stuff works, but I’m sure once we get to Kaer Morhen, once you get a chance to really rest, you’ll be back to slinging spells in no time.”

She’s been telling herself a variation of that for months now. Every time a basic spell fizzled or backfired, every time a charm has left her winded. It’s done nothing to subdue the worry that prowls at the back of her mind.

“But what if I don’t.” she says quietly, _what if it never gets back to the way it was_. 

Jaskier stares at her pensively, and for a moment Yennefer isn’t sure who he sees staring back at him, a mage of Aretuza, or a scared, angry little girl with a crooked spine.

“Yennefer, you must know by now that you are one of my _best friends._ You are important to me,” her stomach swoops, “you are important to _all of us_. If your magic never recovers, well then, I guess you’ll be stuck with me watching your back for the rest of your days.”

He says it so simply, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I’m not much of a fighter, but I will write you the greatest songs, just you wait.”

She chokes out a laugh, gripping onto his hand a little tighter, “thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier gives her a crooked little grin, his eyes suspiciously glossy in the candlelight, “that’s what family is for darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t played the games but this was inspired by a clip (https://youtu.be/xpfGeXQAtpI) I saw of the game where Geralt fights a guy for saying Yen looked like “a beached orca”. Rest in fuckn pieces dude.


	5. Jaskier

After weeks of travel their journey is finally near its end.

They’re hunkered down in a small northern village, not too far from the old witcher keep. This time next week they’ll be safe in walls of Kaer Morhen.

They’re lucky they beat the weather, arriving early enough that they won’t have to worry about snow and ice on the path. The bitter cold has just started blowing in and right now, they’re honestly just happy to sit and thaw their bones by the warmth of a fire.

Jaskier is in his element. His fingers dancing nimbly over the strings of his lute, a jaunty folk song flowing smoothly from his lips.

He can’t perform any of his famous White Wolf ballads, it wouldn’t be safe. But every song he performs, from ancient hymn to trendy ballad, he manages to make his own.

He’s in the middle of some old song about battling a dragon when a chorus of drunken jeers erupt from a nearby table, making her brow twitch in annoyance. 

The drunkards have been harassing Jaskier since he started his performance, interrupting songs and shouting insults. So far, Jaskier has handled them with poise and ease. Every barb they threw was easily parried by Jaskier’s quick wit.

These bastards had no idea they type of person they were messing with.

Yen will forever treasure the looks on their faces after one of them had the audacity to interrupt the bard’s song with a yell of ‘cocksucker’ and Jaskier had simply glided over to their table, fluttered his lashes and said “oh darling, you have to ask me nicely first.”

Geralt was stiff as a board beside her, muscles tensing every time one of the bastards opened their mouth to spew more filth. His fists clenched so tight on the top of the table that his knuckles were bone white.

And really, she thinks, it’s a tad over protective.

Geralt needn’t worry. Jaskier has proved time and time again that he knows how to handle himself.

He’d definitely made that clear enough tonight, after the first few warning glares thrown in Geralt’s direction when the abuse began. Glares that clearly said ‘don’t get involved, I have this under control.’

It’s not like Jaskier is some delicate maiden who needs to be protected. He’s a grown man who seems to have this situation well in hand.

It is, of course, at this exact moment that something soars through the air and hits Jaskier in the face.

The bard cries out in shock, the final notes on his lute twanging out discordantly. The improvised weapon, a wooden bowl, clatters loudly to the floor, echoing in the silence that has fallen over the tavern.

Jaskier is frozen where he stands, thick stew spattered across his face, his hair, his doublet. His brand-new doublet that he had been so excited to show her, a stunning amethyst that was a perfect match to her eyes.

Rage overtakes her. A red haze of fury falling over her eyes as she gets to her feet and storms over to the bastards’ table.

Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s picking up a chair and heaving it over her head, swinging it forward in a brutal arch right onto the back of the man whose dinner now decorated the bard.

The man drops like a rock, and she’s not sure if he’s unconscious or dead and truly she doesn’t care.

The other two men are frozen in their seats, gaping at Yennefer, when there’s a sudden squealing of a chair against wood and the sound of Ciri’s small footsteps charging toward them. She’s holding her own bowl of stew aloft, and once she gets close enough, promptly upends the entire steaming bowl onto the man sitting closest to her.

The last man has just about worked himself into a fuss when a large leather glad hand clamps onto his shoulder.

The man could be a statue for how still and white he goes when he turns his head and finds that hand attached to a witcher, the white wolf himself, glowering down at him.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, his face fixed in a firm scowl as he lifts his tankards and slowly pours his ale over the man.

“Get. Out.” He growls.

The two conscious men all but fall over themselves in a mad scramble to get out the door and away from the furious witcher.

“Well that was a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

Jaskier has his hands on his hips, but there’s undeniable amusement dancing in his eyes.

Geralt lets out a grunt, stepping over the unconscious man on the floor to carefully tilt the bard’s head up to examine the bruise blooming across his face in the lamplight.

The witcher prods at the tender skin carefully, letting out soft apologies for every wince and flinch from the bard. Once he’s satisfied that there’s no serious damage, Geralt hums and leans in to give Jaskier a tender kiss. 

The bard happily sinks into Geralt, and Yen’s about to remind them that they’re in a public space when Geralt jerks back from the embrace, nose wrinkled.

“Hm. You taste like oxtail.”

Jaskier blinks at him for a moment, “thank you Geralt,” he deadpans, “truly the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me. The height of modern romance in fact.”

“Could use more spices,” Geralt adds on.

The bard barks out a laugh, shaking his head slightly, before his eyes land on her. There’s a soft look on his face that has her insides squirming with a fondness that she’s not quite prepared to examine just yet. “Thank you too, Yen. That really was a brilliant move, I’ll need to remember it for next time.”

“Of course,” she says with a quirk of her lips, “that’s what family is for, isn’t it?”

Silence hangs for a heavy moment, long enough for Yennefer to fear she’s made a misstep, when Jaskier absolutely beams at her.

He moves towards her, arms open to pull her into a hug that she just barely manages to dodge.

“Do _not_ even think about it until you’ve cleaned yourself. This dress is Toussaintian silk.”

The bard has about half a second to pout before Ciri lets out a snort and all of Jaskier’s attention zeros in on the girl.

“Oh, my darling, you look like you could use a hug!” Ciri lets out a shriek as she dodges Jaskier’s lunge for her.

She and Geralt watch as Jaskier chases a giggling Ciri around the tavern, weaving between chairs and tables and annoyed patrons. She huffs out a laugh when Jaskier just narrowly avoids a collision with a very unamused barmaid.

“I doubt this is the family you imagined, “Geralt rumbles from beside her, “but I hope it’ll do.”

Ciri squeals as Jaskier finally grabs her around the waist and pulls the giggling girl into a hug.

Yennefer can’t stop the smile pulling at her lips, “yea, it’ll do.”


End file.
